Ross
by emersoncod
Summary: AU Rosamund/Carlisle. Several drabbly chapters focusing around the imagined relationship of our favourite redheads: besides Sybil's Irish beaux of course.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

He first saw her in the autumn, at a ball filled with the young and the beautiful, when the falling leaves were the same colour as the molten spray of her hair. She is reaching the end of her out season, eighteen years old and uncourted for her false smile filled with teeth flashing like knives in the dark, clenched so offputtingly to trap acidic, unladylike words. He studied her face, nose like a knife, lips so thin, delicate bones moving beneath papery white skin. That pale flesh would wrinkle soon; there are already thin webs around her startling blue gaze and her coy mouth is bracketed by thin laughter lines. If she continued to stand still and alone beneath the shedding trees, the leaves would gather around her, moulder and cocoon her in decay, snake into her serpentine eyes, writhe beneath the cage of her ribs and snuff out the thudding ruby beneath. She would rot in her own self-hatred and odd lack of faith in the world. He could let her. He should let her.

And then she turns, catches sight of him like a trick of the light in the corner of one of her brilliant eyes. And she _smiles_.

Richard Carlisle arranges to meet Rosamund Crawley's father in the next week.

The month after that, Rosamund writes in neat, flowing cursive onto a dotted line her first name, hand steady, fingers arranged gracefully.

The wedding band bruises the knuckle of her ring finger as she scratches _Carlisle_ after it.


	2. Chapter 2

Tom Branson liked to consider himself a patient man.

His slow but sure conversion from passionate rebel to almost-passive Socialist, the steady pace of his writing that detailed thought, depth, intuition, even the painstaking way his fingers undid the bolts and oil-coated screws of his old engine, finding the root of the problem after maybe hours of work that had caused the suspicious splutter of smoke from the exhaust.

But, when it came to his wife, Tom found himself a man out of his mind.

"I can hear you huffing, you know."

Tom scowled, and dug his hands deeper into his armpits. In the dusty, slightly sagging old wedding-dress shop that Sybil had dragged him to hours ago that morning, the only source of heat was the Irish sun pressing against the cloudy windows; his pay from his latest article had not been sufficient to cover the cost of a new coat, and support a pregnant Sybil, and their apartment beside the harbour, especially with Sybil taking some time off – very grudgingly and with many feminist mutterings - from the hospital. However, shopping for suitable attire for Edith Crawley's wedding seemed to imbue Sybil with some inner heat that combated the biting cold. He wished he had had the same ability.

Sybil stumbled behind the curtain that served as a changing room – she had not quite adjusted to being without a maid just yet – and then swept it back with one arm and stepped forward with the air of a ballerina, despite the ever-so-slight bulge curving her midsection.

"Ta-da!" she announced, and, despite himself, Tom felt a smile pull at his lips.

The long, powder blue dress she'd chosen was simply cut and simply patterned, but as she turned and pointed her heel in a familiar gesture, Tom was suddenly peering behind a curtain at the mahogany furnishings and rich trappings of Downton, past the shocked inhabitants and towards hips wrapped in ballooning pants, intricate and expensive, the bodice laced deftly with housemaid precision, a smile so slight it shined like a sliver of moon – Sybil tilted her head just-so, and Tom let the smile blossom on his face like the health of pregnancy had on Sybil's skin.

Glowing with happiness, Sybil stepped over to the mirror – with a definite saunter in her walk, Tom thought, appreciatively – and twirled around, tipping the hat brim a little over her eyes, tugging at her gloves, adjusting the image reflected at her until she was seemingly satisfied.

As he watched her, he thought of the conversation they had had that morning, over toast and cups of steaming tea, the joy in his wife's eyes as she scanned the letter printed in neat, swooping letters that had come postmarked from England.

"_Edith's getting married!" Sybil gasped, and Tom, who had already very deliberately avoided the envelope addressed from Downton from the pile on the sideboard, sighed as he broke the top of the egg nestled in the chipped holder before him. "That's fantastic." _

"_It is." Sybil replied, not without a touch of stubbornness. "And she's invited us." _

_Tom pushed back his chair and stood, and Sybil, with a little difficulty, mirrored him. _

_They were in the little area sectioned off as the kitchen in their small, three-roomed apartment, and having started off rubbing the goosebumps on his skin as he uncurled his arms from Sybil's sleeping from in waking, the sooty grate in the corner was crackling with a modest fire; he remembered his wife watching him fondly from the toaster rack as he sat back on his heels and coaxed the blaze into waking. There was strikingly little fondness in her eyes as she observed him now. _

"_Tom," she said, firmly, in a voice that rang of months of working in a ward of inquisitive – and sometimes acid-tongued – Irish nurses. "They've already sent money for tickets. We have to go." _

"_Do we? Do we? Sybil, darling, do we?" _

"_Tom. It's from my cousin, Ross. He says he wants to meet you."_

"_I've more important things to attend to than meeting cousins." _

_He saw Sybil flinch, and he mentally cursed himself. Sybil's cousin, Ross, son of Lady Rosamund and the infamous Sir Richard Carlisle, had been Sybil's best friend and playmate since they were able to crawl into each other's cribs. She had talked sometimes of him, and he had heard the wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of the times they had spent together – wild nights at his mother's chateaux in Paris, how he had encouraged her to voice her political views, how she regretted not telling him about the two of them when he went off to fight in the war and missed the chance to meet Tom. _

"_Darling," he said, more gently. "I don't mean to be so harsh. What I mean is – is this really that important for you?" _

_The question had turned to a plea – he saw her soften as she studied his tense form, tight with discomfort. He could see was torn, thinking of him, but also of sisters and a loving mother, of not having to wake to a freezing bedroom, starting the day with breakfast on a tray and speckles of honey on her porridge, the one thing she had started to crave that they couldn't quite afford. _

_And of course, Ross. _

_He slumped, and shook his head. "I suppose we'll need to go shopping for a nice dress, then." _

She had raced around the table to throw her arms around him, and as he thought of this the sunlight gilded his wife gold, making her shine as she turned to face him, and he felt a love tug at his heart so achingly it made him feel breathless. It was hardly ever a question of if when it came to Sybil asking things of him, but when.

"How do you like it?" she asked, innocent of the changes that had stirred in her husband's thoughts, then squeaked as he stood from his crumbling chair and pulled her firmly against his chest, expression protesting but hands curling around his lapels, fitting into the well-worn grooves they had formed there.

"It's lovely," he said, and then kissed her, thinking _lovely, lovely, lovely. _

The bag that held her dress knocked lightly against his knee from where it swung from Sybil's fingers.

The sea spray threw itself against the bottom as they side-stepped a puddle, and as he bargained seat bookings for ferry to England with the man sat at the booth, it reminded him of the touch of her lips against his in the back of that dingy shop, where the love spilled from the skin and into his. He found her hand, wrapped around the bag strings, and held it. They looked at each other, and suddenly they were the only people on the planet – she stood on tiptoe and pressed her mouth against the angle of his jaw, and he sighed.

His wallet might suffer, but there were definite pros to being married to Lady Sybil Crawley.

The car trundled down the path to Downton with all the swaying familiarity he remembered from his chauffeur days.

Tom traced an L-shaped scratch in the paintwork from where his elbow was resting on the doorframe; a box of tools that had fallen in the garage had glanced off the left passenger side, and no amount of buffing had managed to take it out. It was odd, this reminiscing, like walking into a room and discovering it full of old friends. He looked at Sybil, sat quietly beside him. Her gaze was fixed upwards, at the green diamond-shaped leaves that created patterns sliding over her upturned face, and an unaware little smile rested between her lips. He could almost see the memories that were coming back in her faraway eyes. Tom swallowed the lump of discomfort that was forming in his throat, and forced himself to focus on those eyes, and less of the tight suit that was chafing his neck, and the respectable collar that circled him like a noose there.

His collar seemed to choke a little as the gravel began to cough as it skipped beneath the wheels, the mark of where the path began to roll towards the clearing. Sybil's cool, reassuring fingers wrapped knowingly around his wrist; the tension pulling his shoulders taut shuddered down his back as it rippled out, and as Sybil's thumb gently rubbed his pulse, he felt her palm slide against his, and squeeze as Downton, honey-bricked, sky-scraping, majestic as the sun, loomed out of the air and stared impassively down as the car drew up beside the front door.

As Sybil climbed out of the passenger seat and rushed into her parents' arms, Tom shrank back a little, scanning the faces assembled in the little meeting party. Cora, luminous, kittenish eyes made wider as they took in the tell-tale curve of her grandchild. Robert, removed and imperious, pointedly not looking at Tom as he accepted a kiss from his daughter. Mary and Edith, expressions oddly switched; Edith looked radiant, happiness in her smile and her neatly styled hair, Mary with shadowed eyes, still as coldly beautiful as ever but with something weighting her shoulders, making her stand a little less straight.

But there was no glimpse of red hair or impish grin, no unfamiliar face greeting them alongside the Crawleys.

"You have been keeping poor Ross waiting," Edith playfully admonished, walking beside Sybil as behind them the servants took their luggage. He missed the rest of the conversation as he walked slowly behind as the family retreated inside, his eyes on Thomas and O'Brien, as they cast significant looks at Tom's shabby suitcase, the patches on his elbows. His fists curled slightly. He breathed shallowly through his nose, and forced himself to keep walking.

The interior of Downton had changed little as they entered the main hall, interspersed with the quiet figures of maids and footmen disappearing down corridors or to the servants hall, and Mr Carson, hands folded behind his back, who too gave Tom a scathing look from the ever-present scrutiny of those bushy brows and corrugated forehead. Although he would've gladly responded in kind, Tom passed quickly to join the others, and then busied himself with gazing at the wall-to-wall tapestries on the east gallery as they made towards the reception room.

When he finally looked back again, they had stopped outside the door, Cora and Robert ahead and the sisters clustered outside the door. Sybil was twisting her glove edge lightly, a sure sign of anxiety. Her voice was tinged with worry as she spoke to Mary.

"He isn't angry at me, the darling?"

"Of course not. But he was rather put out that he wasn't invited to the wedding."

"Well," Sybil countered, no little accusation in her voice. "That wasn't exactly_ my_ fault, was it?"

"Oh do not let's fight." Edith put in, somewhat uncharacteristically. "He's been waiting since last Friday to see you, and we're on strict instructions to leave you three alone to get to know each other." Edith glanced at Tom, and offered a halting smile. "You _and _Tom. He's been very specific."

"We'll take your leave then." Mary prompted, and glided with Edith in tow with the parting air of a glacier.

He watched the tassels on the bottom of Mary's dress disappear behind the curving banister, and then stood beside his wife, who wore an expression of mingled excitement and nervousness. The door was closed before them. Sybil's fingers hovered like butterflies over the embossed gold handle.

"He's going to be in there whether we go in or not, love." Tom whispered. Sybil tightened, took a breath; and then pushed open the door.

And sure enough, at the centre of the room, he stood; toweringly tall and thin in a fine purple suit, his shoulders and waist angular like an inverted triangle, his hair a dark, vibrant reddish-gold like lipstick or paint, stuck up a in a thick shock upward above his head. He gave it a languorous, well-worn gesture of taming with his knuckles as he walked easily forward to greet them – the fingers of which, when falling to settle back against his long, mobile thighs, looked like the elegant legs of two pale, gloved spiders. They curled sensitively around his palm as briefly and lightly as he held Tom's gaze.

"Ross Richard Carlisle," Ross said, voice modulated, low, sweet. "At your service."

As Tom carefully withdrew from the handshake, he felt nonplussed on the impression he was making on Sybil's favourite cousin. His expression was unreadable. Sharply blue and large as they were, his eyes revealed absolutely nothing. A few moths flung themselves with papery flutters against the lamps dimming in the corners – the light, playing across Ross's knife-like nose, briefly blurred and cast a shadow across his long jaw. He felt a gaze on him, and glanced at his wife some distance away; Sybil's eyes, watching anxiously from the window, were only a whisper lighter. He found courage in this, as he always did in her, and smiled. "Tom Branson."

He thought, then added "At yours."

Ross's poker face broke then into a grin – although it in itself was just a flicker of teeth between his lips (a number of lines dimpled beside the narrow, sloping cheekbones at every movement of his mouth), there was an odd impression of brightness that briefly illuminated his face, like the rich white of the sun behind a wall of cloud. When it smoothed back into a moderate line, the room felt suddenly a little less warm.

The sound of a door squeaking open broke the conversation, and Sybil masked a sigh of relief as Branson and Ross made their pleasantries with Cora, who, in a dress of peaches-and-cream, gave her daughter a sly look over her shoulder as she approached.

"Oh, Ross dear, I am _thrilled_ you've finally decided to come and meet Tom in person," Cora cooed, giving Tom an excuse to back politely out of the huddle and join Sybil.

The remnants of a shredded flower carpeted the vase-laden sill where she stood; he smirked as he picked up a few desiccated petals and quirked a questioning brow, to Sybil's chagrin.

"I was _nervous_," she said indignantly, grabbing them from him with tulip-scented fingers. Tom felt the bubble of uncomfortableness that Downton brought deflate a little – it helped him feel less out of place when his normally self-assured and capable wife was tying herself in knots. He put a peaceable hand on her shoulder, and let her move into his arm, the gauzy blue scarf around her neck rubbing his chin. "I forgot destruction follows in the wake of your nerves."

Sybil laughed and pushed him away, but was distracted once again by her cousin detailing something complex to Cora with his characteristic exaggerations – he caught her looking and waved, and when Sybil turned back her expression was once again serious.

"How did you find him?" she said, softly. Her eyes were wide, and a little wary; her apprehension was palpable. He was reminded briefly of the car ride there, and how he'd felt the nerves devouring him whole – he took her wrist, and squeezed it.

"We only said hello to each other, love." Tom cast Ross a side-long look. In truth, the redhead made him feel disorientated. He couldn't form an opinion. "But he seemed – nice."

As if he heard, Ross looked over at them both, the lashes above his lids dark, long, and curved. And, ever so slightly, the corner of his mouth lifted into a smile.


End file.
